Of Drugs, Dates and Dreams
by Kerttu
Summary: John is a practical man, but still he hurts. Post-Rechenbach. Can be viewed as a bromance or slash.


**First time dip into this fandom. Thank you for beta, vanillafluffy and roadwaffle. Enjoy and comment. P.S. Characters not mine, obviously.  
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On the second meeting with Ella after the...just AFTER, she suggests antidepressants.

„Grief and loss are difficult. You were shaken up and displaced when I had sessions with you for the first time, and I was already then willing to prescribe them to you, but you, being a doctor, declined. You had suffered a loss then, as well, but it was not this personal, was it?"

John considers, barely able to think through the dark emptiness in his heart, and agrees.

Both with the reasoning and the medication.

He needs to work now, to keep an accommodation and to just keep busy, if even physically.

Mentally, all seems frozen to some numb state of horror lacking all the other feelings. The practical part of him knows that it is still the emotional shock, but he feels too listless to even think of trying to fight it off. Part of him does not even care if he ever does. But his body is not just a transport, it experiences hunger and thirst and exhaustion and to tend to its needs John must cater to it. That necessitates money and money means working. Work in turn means that he has to be able to hold a job. Right now, he is not sure he can without medication.

He takes the prescription, gets the drug and administers it as directed.

It gets a tiny bit easier to get out of bed and take care of everyday chores after three weeks, but by now Ella is worried about the reoccurring nightmares which leave him groggy during the day because, really, he cannot operate normally on three hours of sleep. During weekends, fine, he can just nap on and off—but not when he has work. Even worse is the realization that in his sleep deprived state he's not able to be a decent doctor who can give a correct diagnoses or be simply objective.

So Ella prescribes him sleeping pills. There is a short temptation the first time he gets them, the full plastic container rattling in his trouser pocket, to just take any bottle of strong spirit and down the pills, all of them, in one go with the drink. At least then he would not have to get up the next morning and face the world again.

For a little while, John considers this, then he thinks what a mess he would leave behind for Harry who has been surprisingly put-together lately, and for Mrs Hudson, who would definitely be affected as well, and drops the idea.

No. He could not do that. He cannot be as callous as...

John swallows, takes a deep breath, picks up a small carton of milk (no need for a big one now) and the obligatory bread for breakfast and goes back to his apartment.

He is careful with the barbiturates, only takes them when necessary and he tries to go without on his days off from work. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not, but John knows that there is no miracle drug for his problem.

In fact, there is no miracle at all.

When Christmas approaches, he feels his mood plummet. It is all the hope in the air, the forced cheer, and Ella agrees, ups his antidepressant dosage, and things level out.

Valentine´s day goes by with a dark shadow, because there are friends and love _everywhere_, not to mention lovers of all age and inclination, but John keeps to the treatment plan, struggles but keeps to it, and that period passes as well.

But then May looms on the horizon, the anniversary of... and John cringes. He knows it will hit him hard, he knows. He can feel it in his bones, creeping outwards from his marrow and enveloping everything in his insides and spilling out with each breath he exhales tainting all his surroundings.

John thinks, now when he is still able to so, not yet drowned in sorrow, and ups the dosage of the antidepressant himself a bit. It helps for a while, he can face the upcoming month but the actual day is horrible.

Still, he has enough self-control thanks to the pharmacology that he can accompany Mrs Hudson to the graveyard. He can keep himself from sobbing out loud there and return to his place without throwing himself under the first vehicle with enough speed and weight to make calling an ambulance unnecessary.

THIS time, he does mix barbiturates and alcohol. It is only a shot of whisky and his usual dosage of pills but John drops off like a stone.

He dreams.

There is a presence by him on the bed. Someone is sitting down and covering him with the throw he keeps on the armchair for curling into while watching telly. Then the presence leans in, shifts and curls behind his back, spooning him. The long limbs and thin form feel just right, although not familiar but it is comforting - a human closeness John has not experienced for a very long time. It is warm and comfortable...

A hand with slender fingers caresses his hair, curls around his waist, draws him closer and it feels good. It smells like home, like Sherlock. John hums through his sleep, snuggles closer and relaxes completely. Suddenly the day does not feel so dreadful and depressing any more. Perhaps he is on the mend, after all, John thinks and surrenders to his exhaustion and the warm presence next to him. The last thing he feels before complete slumber are a pair of lips touching his nape.


End file.
